Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Shelf-Elf Barry And The Ugly Christmas Jumper Situation Shelf-Elf Barry wished he worked on the Christmas production line. Okay the hours were long - September through to December, and you had to be ambidextrous to avoid serious repetitive strain injury, but once you got to that Christmas Eve deadline it was sherry and mince pies and eight months holiday. And no thinking required! Most production elves would look at the shelf-elf hours and scoff, of course. A mere 25 days! But they never once had to think about work, they could just do it. Barry worked all year to storyboard 25 unique scenarios, and how to get in and out of each one without being seen, and then there were the incessant training drills and fitness routines that were a core part of being on special forces shelf-elf detail. He felt like he was getting too old for this nonsense. Retirement, alas, was hundreds of years away, and Santa never sacked an elf without also turning them into stuffed toys, which wa...

On Monday the first thing I take note of is a waning gibbous moon. A blue-silver bloom floating in pale morning sky. Two cloud tufts make eyes, the moon makes a button nose, a face more awake than mine. Cold takes hold of my fingertips, brings attention to frosted car windows. A visible sigh in the beautiful air. It’s Monday and I need to drive. Blow a kiss to the mouthless moonface, grab the ice scraper. (Call yourself petal out loud, no else is awake to know about it. List the things to be done: do this, do the next thing. Get it done, petal.) Yesterday we trailed to Exmouth, piled the little car high with boys and dogs, took them to the beach. Grandchild 1, Grandchild 4. Two of our counted blessings. One football, a few squabbles: the usual brother-banter. A slimmed down Fat Beagle, a springy Dog who would ache later. A dog’s ball for throw and fetch. (For spaniel Dog, for this is her vital work. Beagle is more about the scents and the schmooze.) No sooner do we ...

Dedicated to the memory of Laura Denaire Harris 19th May 1975 ~ 31 October 2018 We travel a road copper-edged in dropped leaf. Under crooked branches a filigree of gold and shade falls upon us. A burst of starlings, as though blown from the boughs: silhouettes swooping through blue, in a bloom of sunlight. We cross a shining river on a sturdy bridge, each arch has a shadow-shimmer on the water below. Pass a thatched cottage where a rose shakes in the bite of the breeze. The air has no warmth beyond the sun’s reach. We walk through the town to find the right church; pass paramedics kneeling by a man who is prone on the street in a sleeping bag. There are people at a cashpoint queuing, subdued. Passersby viewing with concern. A busker without a coat, his face pinched pink. Shops open, some lit for Christmas. In a gilded doorway, a couple ask directions from a lady who points as she speaks. We find the church, the hearse...

If I wash my hair today ,   tomorrow  I could schedule in some combing.  Not to glorify busy, if messy hair is a glorification. I forget. It could be fashionable , if that word still exists. Anyway, here I am babbling: poor time management;  though  most things seem to be getting done; the big picture is a body of water - me and my task list are bouncing over it, skimmed stones – I'm not at all sure if I know what I’m doing but I’m doing it.    There’s a destination which we may or may not reach. Even r est time is skittish :   yet t his  fear is relished – if only all fear were like this!    Doubt is less popular. The work ahead is a weight I haven’t fully figured how to shoulder.     Did I ever figure out any previous burdens?   Luckily, no! An encouraging precedent!      When I am standing on the shore, a real shore, and the air is gathering chill and the water is silky...